


In Snowdrop's Wake

by totallytrans



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, POV First Person, Suicide mention, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallytrans/pseuds/totallytrans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of the inquisitor hits all hard, but those closest to her take the blow hardest, knowing that the memories of the inquisition may live on, but it's the memories of the inquisitor herself that they--and only they--hold on to.</p><p>A series of vignettes told from the viewpoints of various DA:I characters, centered around my inquisitor, Alaena Ella'em Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Funeral Service

**Author's Note:**

> Blackwall's POV

   Staring at a casket bathed in the sunlight sifting through stained glass windows? I have to say, didn’t see this coming. We might have been facing off against an archdemon and its master, we might have been deciding the fate of an entire continent as we declared war on Corypheus, but for some reason, I never thought it would have ended this way. Alaena was too strong, too capable, she almost seemed invincible--which isn’t something I would usually allow myself to believe. I’ve even had this talk with her, once. You have to be careful out there, I’d said to her, especially with your condition being as it is. One wrong move, and the inquisition will be without its inquisitor. You aren’t invincible, to the woe of all those people looking up to you.

   The look on her face as I ran towards Skyhold with her in my arms, I swore up and down she was sleeping. A hole in her stomach gushed blood, bones broken in odd angles, but that peaceful, serene way her face settled was one of the most off-putting things I’d ever experienced. Her smudged white lip stain smeared against her dark skin, and her black hair was messy and unkempt, but never would I have thought the life had left her body. Alaena was just too calm for me to presume dead, rather than sleeping--and I’d seen enough dead men for a lifetime. Or, perhaps, it was the tranquility that allowed me to know that she was gone before I even picked her up, and I merely didn’t want to admit it?

   As Mother Giselle led the gathering crowd in prayer to the fallen symbol, I sat grim in my chair, jaw set as I stared ahead. Past the tops of the heads of those seated in front of me, past the gleaming cherry pine casket resting on a raised dais, out the multicolored windows that Alaena had hand picked to be installed in Skyhold. The images in the glass portray elven gods. That one there, that’s meant to symbolize June. Spent three weeks designing the windows with Vivienne, she did. And now I think of the garden that would be without Alaena’s soft hymns, the courtyard that I would no longer escort the blind elf through when she was low in spirits, the undercroft that was resting place of a very eccentric young dwarf who would no longer be able to fantasize about the fade with the elven mage, and the sorrow hit me like a charging bull.

   It just wasn’t right. That woman made an honest man out of me, no matter how hard she tried to make it seem like I was doing that on my own. And it was her being lowered into the ground. I had to ignore the pain that was burrowing into my chest somehow, but reminiscing? Just as painful as looking at her corpse, if you ask me.

    _Maker, I’m never going to stop._ Eulogies were spoken, memories shared, and on my own, I went through my own monologue. Maybe it was the private manner that soothed me, that helped me ignore the sharp guilt I felt every time I dug up an old memory of her.

   A few kept sticking out the brightest, most vividly. I remember when I first found out she was blind, for example; a day that was as amusing as it was shocking. The fact that I had to discover the fact that she was without sight said enough about her character to fill a book. Up she walked to me, quarterstaff in hand, tapping at the ground in front of her in such a nonchalant way, I had always thought she was just swinging it about playfully.

    _Blackwall, to be frank, this stick isn’t getting me far. Most people think I’m a mage when I hold it._ I can still hear her voice, the way her s-sounds wisped off ever-so-slightly, like a hiss without its sinister nature. Of course, I didn’t know what she meant, but she kept speaking. _Well, that’s the problem. I am a mage. That, however, is a topic for a different time; ser Blackwall, I would be honored if you would subject yourself to mindlessly walking me to and fro_.

    _Completely ignoring the mage part of that request, why in Thedas would you need that? Not that I’m offended, by any stripe._

   She laughed and cast her unnatural white eyes my direction, bore straight through to my core. I could feel her gaze against my skin. And that’s when Allie laughed, whole-hearted, and said in simple terms. _I’m blind. And I’m sick of poking a stick around and hoping no one notices. They think I already fancy you, anyway, so it shouldn’t raise suspicion._

   A blind, dagger-wielding mage who no one knew was a blind, dagger-wielding mage. It was almost worth a laugh, at the time.

   I wonder how many of these people knew their beloved inquisitor couldn’t see. I wonder how many of them knew that she was plagued by demons whispering her name for her whole life.

_Did any of these people even know Allie?_

   Did any of them know that she sung to the flowers every morning so they would feel loved, on the off-chance that flowers could feel? Did they know that she wouldn’t wear leather because she would never use the product of an animal she didn’t kill on her own (and that was assuming she would even kill an animal to begin with, because only dying animals suffered by her hand)? Did they know that the flashbacks she endured daily left her without breath, without reason, screaming about suicide? That I held her while she cried about tossing herself off the ramparts and ending the miserable reign of the inquisitor?

   That I loved her with every fibre of my being?

   Clenching my hands together angrily, I could feel the tears I’d denied starting to streak down my unshaven cheeks. My lips pressed together in a rage-driven, guilt-stricken frown that seemed to make holding in this sorrow that much harder. That bitch of a Mother rambled on and on about the doings of the Inquisitor, my inquisitor. About the struggles she endured for ‘the greater good,’ about the relationships she’d kindled (but she kept out her clandestine romance with that elf, Solas--not surprising,) and all that I registered was my own anger, disgust at the people around me.

   I understood why they said these things. I understood why elderly men and women wept, why soldiers of the inquisition bowed their heads with their hand wrapped ‘round their blade hits, but when it came to Allie, it felt like a joke. What they knew of Alaena Ella’em Lavellan wouldn’t fit half a piece of parchment, and that’s if they wrote as big as they could.

   They don’t look up to her. They look up to the _idea_ of her.

   I could tell my emotions were clouding my judgement, but it was all I could do to hold in my anger as I stood from my seat silently and crept out of the hold, allowing the doors to shut behind me as I strode down the steps and into the courtyard. Eyes glued to the ground, all I could see was the dirt beneath my feet, clouds of dust kicking up with every forceful step I took. My leather boots turned a sooty hue as i walked along, the light of the setting sun burning against my exposed neck, the side of my face.

   “Y’know, Hero, I think you should be in there.” I hear the voice without seeing the speaker, but I know who it is without looking up. My hand grabs onto the side of the stable, and Allie’s hart nudges my hand knowingly. Even I can’t help but run my fingers along its soft snout, listening as Varric begins to walk up.

   “The bullshit Giselle is spouting is nauseating. Or perhaps it’s my own emotions doing that. Either way, I...I needed air.” Hearing my own voice is weird, as if I shouldn’t be speaking right now, but silently mourning.

   “Bullshit though it may be, it’s important bullshit,” I see the dwarf from the corner of my eye, admiring what Alaena referred to as The Pride of Arlathan--Pride for short. She never truly named him, curiously enough, but the title it held was noble, worthy of being the Inquisitor's honored mount.

   “What brings you out here?” A bit of a sigh escapes, and I turn my gaze towards Varric. His golden hair is illuminated in the warming light that came with sunset, the red leather jacket he bore nearly shining; he clearly cleaned up for the occasion. Despite his tidy appearance, he looks worn, battered down, and I feel a twinge of sympathy. This bastard was hardy, I had to admit.

   “Same thing that’s making you pet the deer,” Varric huffs, scratching Pride’s snout briefly, although the animal is a little warier of his presence than my own, “didn’t want to listen to the depressing ramblings of a Chantry Mother.”

   “Yet it’s important for me to be in there?”

   “It is, because she mattered to you. More than mattered. You aren’t subtle, Hero.” For a moment, I think I see a smile on his face, admonishing and playful. Or, it would be. All that’s present now is a falsity to his smirk that even he couldn’t hide, as charismatic as he might be.

   The mention of my own emotions, coming from someone else, causes me to scoff. Shaking my head slightly, I straighten my posture, pushing off of the stable and ignoring the chirrup from Pride as I begin to pace away. “Yeah, and she’s going to be buried  six feet under, soon enough. My love for her isn’t going to change that. Neither is crying my eyes out in the chamber that reminds me of Alaena more than any of their damned eulogies do.” I can feel it; Varric knew how I’d respond, and seemingly, he prepared for it. That, or he’s just that damn quick.

   “Snowdrop wouldn’t want you out here. She liked that Chantry garden for a reason, y’know. It seems fitting you’d sit through the Chantry’s regular burial ceremonies, doesn’t it?” His expression bears sympathy, I can tell, but part of me wonders if he’s afraid he’s not getting to me, that he’s just pissing me off.

   Not that he isn’t pissing me off. Hastily I turn around, eyebrows angrily furrowed as I bore down upon the dwarf. From what I could tell, he didn’t flinch, but I’d imagine he was ready to dash. “Dont tell me what you think Alaena would want! Does it matter anymore? She’s dead, Varric!”

   Calm, collected, Varric shrugs a half-shrug and looks up at me. “It matters to you.”

   A brief moment passes where I’m tempted to storm away, or shout at him some more, but that one sane part of me is whacking my rage upside the head, yelling at it to go away. I take a deep breath, drawing air until my lungs can’t hold anymore, and release it in a nettled huff. “I’ll go back in, if it’ll get you to drop this.”

   Victorious, Varric smirks, even though it’s still void of that certain something that made his expressions one-of-a-kind. “Off you go, Hero.”

_I’m no hero. Look at the inquisitor now. Where was this ‘hero’ when she needed him?_

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne's POV

  Alaena has the architectural expertise of an aristocratic noble of Orlais, not an elf of the Dalish. The draperies hanging from the walls were made of a shimmering, silk-like fabric that seemed almost fluid in its form, flowing in a still breeze that seemed to flow through Skyhold’s grand hall, as I was accustomed to referring to it. The carpeting leading up to the throne, almost satin in appearance, dull green in color, looked like it was no thicker than paper, but when one stood upon it, the cushioning under one’s feet felt like walking upon feathers. And the statues lining either side, holding in their silvery hands bowls of flame...I couldn't even begin trying to wonder how the craftsmen created such sentient--in appearance--statues. Their hair seemed made of the finest strands of silver, placed upon their heads one by one, by hand. Blank eyes under heavy sets of stone eyelashes looked up to the sky, outstretched hands holding glorious bowls offering glowing embers up to the heavens.

 

  I have to admit, living in Skyhold might be more luxurious than most homes in Orlais.

 

 Never would I have imagined that Alaena would have such an eye for interior design, and that’s disregarding her heritage entirely. Then again, I suppose, after laying eyes upon her magnificent ball gown to be worn in the empress’ court, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise. Lounging in one of the velvet-backed chairs, glass of wine in hand, my eyes remained on the stained glass windows lining the wall in front of me. The sun was lowering in the sky, and the warm greens and reds that usually illuminated the room began to die down, allowing the flames of torches and braziers to cast a homely glow in the room.

 

   _Where is that darling girl?_ I do know that Alaena has a tendency to wander from Skyhold after-hours, so to speak, but she never misses sunsets at Skyhold. It’s a bit of a tradition between us, sitting in the main hall drinking fine Orlesian wines and watching the sun set, marking another day gone by, another day closer to our ultimate goal. Today, it seemed, she was deemed to be absent, for the first time. My eyes shift from the windows towards the massive doors, watching as men and women walk to and fro with whatever business they may have, worried when I don’t notice Alaena’s face in the crowd.

 

  At least, not at first, I don’t.

 

  It’s hard to hide the shock on my face when I first see her. Looking past the dirt and muck covering her clothing, her facial tattoos are all but absent. I think that perhaps I’m seeing things wrong, that she’s simply that dirty, but no. As she storms past people looking on in surprise, I see that her skin is the same constant shade of brown, not concealed by grime. The tattoos are just gone. My, what a story she must have.

 

  But I simply can’t worry about that. The look on her face is purely agonized; she stumbles along, biting her lip so hard that blood stained her lipstick pink, and to my shock, I watch as she walks right into Varric before stopping in place, hands covering her face in what I read as shame. I can’t tell if she walked into the dwarf because she wasn’t paying attention, or because she was approaching him and simply didn’t stop before she came up to him; it’s hard to tell, from my angle. Putting my glass down, I rush forward, catching the brief conversation being held.

 

  “Snowdrop, what’s--” the dwarf begins, worriedly wiping mud off of his coat, but Alaena is too disoriented to notice. Tears stream down her face, and she sinks to her knees, holding back a sob. I catch Varric giving me a glance of concern before walking off, leaving the Inquisitor and I alone near the fireplace.

 

  “My dear, what ever has happened?” I kneel down to her level, and a frown spreads across my face when I hear a sob escaping the lissome elf. She looks up, sniffing, and I run a thumb across her cheek to wipe away tears.

 

  “Not here,” is all she replies with, sniffing solemnly and rubbing her eyes with those dirty hands before wiping away blood trickling from her lip. A frown breaks across my features, and I straighten up, gently hoisting the Inquisitor up.

 

  “Alaena, darling, why don’t we go get you cleaned up?” It’s not hard to mask my concern with bravado, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry for the elf. With my hand on her arm, I can feel the trembles shaking her body, but Alaena thankfully takes well to my guiding her through the hold, to a place where she can tidy up. Every few steps, I cast a side-eyed glance at my elven companion, but nothing seems to change, whether it be for better or for worse. Empty white eyes look down towards the ground, tears freely streaking her cheeks, her usually milky-white lips an odd combination of nude skin and pink blood stains, a darkened wound splitting her lip.

 

   _My, what a condition._

 

  “Here we are, love,” I say softly, helping her unbuckle the strappings to her leather armor where she fumbles. The inquisitor offers me a smile, fake as ever, but it’s not as though I’m going to reprimand her. No, I’m too concerned in uncovering the story.

 

  As if listening to my very thoughts, Alaena clears her throat, her voice unusually unstable. “Solas left me.” The statement is blunt, but I do believe that’s to be blamed on the fact that she’s rather upset.

 

  Ah, that would do it. I knew well enough how that could affect people, especially when one was so close to the other. And, I do have to admit, I didn’t see that happening. Solas didn’t seem the type to deal with heartaches and betrayals, and with how smitten she was with him, I figured the relationship would be a rather upstanding one. I suppose it can’t always be the way we expect.

 

  “After we get you a set of fresh garments, would you join me for tea?” I offer as a subtle way of showing her that I’m up for a conversation, setting down the leather coat on a set of drawers, looking over my shoulder at Alaena, who sat in an armchair in her underclothing. I would be more perturbed by her lack of clothing any other day, but she obviously was not taking this well, and I loved the dearest enough to let it slide.

 

  “Thank you,” she smiles, and this time, it has a tad bit of sincerity to it. Reassuring. Alaena gets to her feet, clad in nothing but breeches (slightly stained, but I’d let it go) and a silky tank top, wiping at her eyes once more to rid herself of tears. “I hope you don’t expect me to change.”

 

  “We’d only be going to my quarters. I don’t believe that would be necessary.” This time around, she walks on her own, but she lags behind as she always does, taking in the scenery. It’s been quite some time since we came here, but she seems ever fascinated with the decor. Never walks too fast, always looks in every nook and cranny, stops before entering or exiting a room. Odd behavior, I do admit, but I know she’s a woman with an eye for details.

 

  Tea is poured into porcelain cups and placed on small plates, and I seat myself across from Alaena, holding gingerly my tea. “Do tell me, whatever happened to you?”

 

  “Solas explained what the vallaslin are,” she let out a sigh, tracing her fingers against her skin absently, “slave markings, denoting the god you wish to praise.”

 

  “Oh, my,” I frown, sipping at the hot liquid. Unfortunately, I am not as well-versed in elven mythology as I may wish to be, so it comes as a surprise to me, as well. Even I had been aware of their function. Or so I thought.

 

  “He removed them, and...he just fucking leaves,” the conviction in her voice is venomous. I’d be wary, were I Solas. Seeing Alaena this upset is like seeing a wyvern walking the streets of Denerim. It didn’t happen, and if it happened, one would be wise to run. “He tells me that the ‘distractions’ would end. That’s all it was. A _distraction_.” She spits the words out.

 

  “Do try not to worry yourself. What is to be will pass, and as you have so many other times, you will overcome it.”

 

  “I loved him.”

 

  “As I well know, Alaena,” my voice softens in sympathy.

 

  She looks up at me, and we make eye contact. She searches my expression for a moment before looking away. “Your spirit is beautiful, Vivienne. I wished I possessed an aura as bright, vibrant, as yours.”

 

  A touching figure of speech. I warmly smile, setting my cup down and placing a reassuring hand on her thigh. “Don’t allow this to set you back. We are so near the end of this road, and soon enough, the Inquisition will be going other directions. Its leader needs to be strong, as you are.” A squeeze, firm and, hopefully, encouraging.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  
  _And I you, my darling._


	3. Riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's POV

  As if the bitter weather and soggy roads weren’t bad enough, all the liquor down south tasted like absolute piss. Alcohol is by no means meant to taste pleasant--I’m not expecting the same sensation of biting into the ripest peach picked fresh from the vine or anything of that nature--but I surely don’t expect to gag each time I sip from my tankard. _I’m improving. Small steps, Dorian._

  Even though it’s been a countless span of time, I’m not used to _anything_ down here. Well, perhaps I’ve become a bit accustomed to the weather, but that doesn’t truly do me any good when we have no more...missions, to attend to. The tavern is a center of livelihood in Skyhold, and months after the Inquisitor’s passing, this is true even now. I, on the other hand, lost my favorite drinking pal the day Corypheus blew a hole in her abdomen. A friend, too, Maker forbid. Iron Bull sat at his table with the Chargers, laughing about some vulgar joke he probably cracked, I knew he would always be there for a drink, but Alaena...she had an aura about her that made it so much more enjoyable. And when I say she’s more fun to be around than my own bedmate, a statement was surely being made.

  “Andraste save me,” I grumbled before raising the tankard to my lips and taking a swig, shivering in disgust at the taste. Perhaps I’m being duped, and the barkeep is purposely serving me the worst drink in the bar. I can usually take my alcohol pretty well, all things considered. When the cup is put down, the stool nearest my left is occupied by none other than Blackwall, who somberly orders a drink and rests his forearms on the bar.

  “If you can take this foul liquid down, I suppose you trained yourself vigorously beforehand? Or perhaps I’m merely that weak-stomached.” I try to ease my way into conversation as a cup of ale is put in front of Blackwall, and he raises an eyebrow skeptically at me.

  “Or maybe I’ve been in Ferelden longer than you’ll ever dream to be.”

  He seems to have taken the bait, I smile triumphantly. “Oh, on the contrary, my friend.” Another drink of the damned liquor. _How much do I wish to wreck my body with this poison?_

  “We have another assignment. Cullen sent it in with the daily reports.”

  My heart sinks. “More rioting, I’d assume?”

  “You assume correctly. This time, the people are blaming the _Chantry_ for killing Alaena. Said they were sick of such a ‘controversial’ character leading such a powerful organization. Ironic, isn’t it?” he lets out a tired, heavy sigh, taking a large drink that I myself couldn’t fathom on downing, “she loves the maker with every fibre of her being even though she’s a Dalish elf, she never uses magic once and she’s a mage, and she’s still too bold of an icon.” Blackwall didn’t scoff or roll his eyes, but I could hear and see both from his tone, alone. Not that I don’t agree wholeheartedly.

  “Don’t forget the fact that she was blind, and functioned like a seeing woman,” I muse. Blackwall’s eyebrows exaggeratedly raise in a sarcastic, _I-knew-that-and-no-one-else-did_ sort of way, but he bites back whatever remark he was about to make.

  “But yes, we need to send people to take care of the rioting before he have another civil war springing up.”

  A sour taste fills my mouth, but it isn’t the revolting alcohol. No, it’s the realization that Alaena is being remembered not with peaceful lamenting, but violent retaliation against the remnants of the movement she led.

  “No, couldn’t have that.” Resigned to the fate of crowd control, I push away the half-empty cup I held, beginning to stand and prepare myself to meet in the war room. To my surprise (and gratitude,) Blackwall speaks up before I leave.

  “She wanted to become divine. Did you know that?”

  A juicy piece of gossip. Or, in this case, a heart-breaking piece of information. Slowly, I retreat back to my seat, looking over at Blackwall. Across his face is a look of pain, unprecedented in all my time of knowing him.

  “Truly? And would she have succeeded? I mean, she’s a disabled elven mage, and I haven’t heard of too many divines that fall under those demographics.” Joke though I may, I felt the pang of sorrow, centered in my chest. Alaena would have been a good divine, I know that much.

  “Had everything planned out. Leliana was going to spread the word, Josephine was going to slip in a few I.O.U’s to us that need to be repaid, Cullen would have dealt with resistance afterwards. And Alaena looked forward to it more than anything I’ve heard her speak about. She talked about downing Corypheus with less enthusiasm." 

  “At least Divine Victoria seems to be following in footsteps Alaena would approve of.”

  Blackwall grunts his approval, looking up at me with a pleading expression. “Deal with them, would you? I need a drink to myself.”

  “Of course.” I bow to him with a flourish, mainly to allow him the confidence booster he so desperately needed at the moment, and straighten up to take my leave.

_   What I would have given to see that woman become divine, what I would have given… _


End file.
